Dan's Mother; or, a Quaker Hero. A story ... by the author of 'Mary Constant,' etc

Preface

. Dear Reader, I will just say that if you happen to know any of the Society of Friends at the present time, you must not think my description of them incorrect, because they are so different now. I have represented them just as they were in the days of my youth, which was — I would rather not say how many years ago. Also, if you feel inclined to be severe on my style, please keep in mind that I have written of a time Avhen I was at a very different standpoint from Preface. VI my present one, which makes the per spective and the lights and shadows of my picture, often a little mixed and con fused, I fear. M. M. CONTENTS.

Chapter I

The inhabitants of many of the smaller streets in London offer a curious contrast to one another. In the more important thoroughfares and larger houses, this is less remarkable, though even there you may find the aristocrat and the retired pawn broker, the statesman, and the premiere danseuse living in close proximity. But in these larger houses, inhabited by the wealthy, people do not necessarily know their neighbours, even by sight, whereas in the smaller A ones, where the garden walls rise only breast high, and the windows command a view of all that is doing Avithin these small enclosures, it is difficult to ignore your next-door neigh bours, Avhoever they may chance to be. The heads of the houses at Numbers 2 and 3 Gibraltar Terrace, Kensington, did not know one another, nor did they wish to do so, but both Avere blessed with families of children, who did make acquaintance by means of' the back gardens, and ardently desired to know one another by the front door as well, and to be allowed the delights of going to tea with each other.

But such intimacy was strongly objected to by the parents at Number 2, Avho were a highly respectable family, belonging to the Society of Friends ; while the tenants at Number 3 were decidedly people to be avoided as doubt ful, to say the least of it. You could see this contrast even by the outside of the houses. The neat muslin curtains and green Venetian blinds were alike at all the windows at Number 2, where the windows were always clean, and there was a row of neat evergreens ranged along the window ledges on the basement and ground floor windows. The blinds, too, were drawn up quite even, and never had a cord broken ; whereas, at Number 3, some of the windows had red blinds, and some scolloped drab ones, from which the fringe often hung in tatters. The sash lines were often broken, and the Avindows dirty ; and if there was a smart flower sometimes in the window, it re mained long after it had withered from neglect and inattention.

I may as well confess at once that I was the eldest child of Mrs Lizzy Harris, who occupied Number 3. Our household consisted of my mother and her four children. Our Aunt Fanny, her sister, lived with us ; she was a dressmaker, and occupied the drawing-room floor. We kept no servant, for my mother declared that servants gave her more bother than help. She would rather do all the work herself, which, in truth, she did, being a most energetic woman by fits and starts, so that we rather preferred her having a lazy turn, and letting things go, to the days when she turned to and had a regular clear up, as she called it ; for then there would not be a dry place to sit in, and we were hunted from room to room, and ex pected to help put to rights aftenvards. Generally we appeared to have plenty of money, and dressed and lived well ; but sometimes we ran short of funds, and then the tradespeople were rude, and we had to go without things, and Aunt Fanny scolded our mother — which, indeed, she often did — and the children cried, and I was unhappy, for in the midst of disorder, un tidiness and impropriety of every kind I was born, strange anomaly, an orderly, tidy and proper child in my instincts.

I have been told that my mother had been an actress, and her forte burlesque, until a fatal inclination to stoutness had rendered her no longer capable of appearing in tights, and a family of children had come to occupy her at home. They say she had been a very pretty woman, but Avhen I can first remember her she had few traces of these good looks left. Her yelloAv hair Avas coarse and rough, her pale blue eyes were rimmed and red, her features had lost any delicacy they ever possessed. Her complexion was so blotchy and red that no amount of pearl poAvder or rouge could restore to her loose hanging cheeks any semblance of a fine complexion. Her figure was entirely gone, and she Avas most untidy-looking when, as usual, she Avas pinned into any old gown which came handy. But Avhen she was dressed in a red plush gOAvn or an amber satin, with a long opera cloak trimmed with fur, and her fan and handkerchief in her hand, ready for her favourite amusement, the theatre, she looked still, in my childish eyes, magnificent, though I often Avondered how she could manage to appear so different in the evening from the morning.

For there Avere many days when she was nothing but a drudge from morning to night, spending her whole days in the kitchen, and supping on a pint of porter and a sausage, Avhich I, unlucky child, was sent to fetch. How I hated that visit to the bar of the public-house in our street, where I could hardly reach to put my jug and half pence on the counter, or make my small voice heard above the din of the rough men round me. Sometimes I refused to go, or cried, and then I was slapped, and told to be off at once, and no nonsense. Aunt Fanny often said my mother should not send me to such a place. 'Oh, bother!' my mother would exclaim, — it was her favourite expression — ' it can't hurt Polly Avhile she is such a child. I am always meaning to order in a stock of bottled stout, but I forget, and I must have my porter when I can't get cham, or I should never get through my work.' ' Well, I would sooner deny myself any thing than send that child.

She hates it, and she does not look fit to do such work. But you always were a selfish girl, Liz, and such, I suppose, you always will remain.' ' What a fuss you make about nothing ! Why, we always used to fetch father's beer when we were children.' 'We were different from Polly, any one can see that Avith half an eye. You are always telling me that her father is a gentle man, though I should not see it, judging from his ways, I must say ; but, of course, I am no judge, not being a lady myself. ' You mind your own business, Fan. She is my child, any way, and she is to do as / tell her. You be off directly, Polly, and mind you don't spill nor drink a drop, or you will have to settle with me, I can tell you.' I was glad when my brother Charley was big enough to be sent on these errands. Every one did stare at me so, and very naturally people were surprised to see a little girl, dressed as I was, in a bright-coloured velveteen frock and a deep lace collar, going bareheaded along the street with a big jug in her hand to fetch ale from the public-house.

But this was only one of the many incon gruities of my strange childhood. At a very early age, I learned to help my mother in the housework, for, though untidy in her person, she was, in those days, very particular about the cleanliness of the house. She would put a big tuck apron over my frock, and set me to wash up the tea things, almost before I could stand safely by myself in a chair, and long before I could reach the table without one. Later, I was made to take my turn in cleaning the front door steps, Avhich I hated quite as much from the publicity of the work, which, I considered, demeaned me in the eyes of the neighbours, as from the fact that my poor little arms and small benumbed fingers were quite unable to do such hard Avork properly. I had to shake the mats, too, in the back garden, which was not quite so bad hoAvever as the front door-steps, though it Avas somewhat exposed to the public view.

Then there was other lighter work, such as SAveeping doAvn the stairs, helping to make beds and dusting the bedrooms ; my reAvard being, Avhen I was a good girl, an evening at the theatre, an amusement of which, like my mother and aunt, I Avas very fond, though sometimes I was so tired and sleepy when I got there that my eyes would close of their own accord, even on the gorgeous fairyland of the panto mime itself. I think I must have been about seven years old Avhen Mr and Mrs Martin came to live next door, and I began to notice their little boy Dan staring at me from their back garden, where he often sat on a new green bench they had had placed in their very neat garden. He looked the very picture of a good little boy, as he sat there in a clean white pinafore and very nicely brushed hair, quietly reading a book.

Our garden was never tidy ; we had no flower-beds. Nothing grew in it but a few marigolds in a corner. The beds were lost in the gravel, which we trod all OA^er it. We never sat on a seat, because we had not got anything to sit on but a few old boxes turned upside down ; or read books, because Ave had no books, and worse still, could not read them if we had. Our time out of doors was mostly spent in making mud pies, and in rough games which generally ended in fights, quarrels and screaming. But, though we Avere such disorderly children ourselves, we liked the looks of the Martins' little boy, and lost no time in trying to make his acquaintance. He and I had already grinned at one other, and nodded shyly, as children will do ; but Charley, as soon as he caught sight of him,. struggled up the Avail, regardless of the dam age to fingers, toes and trouser-knees, and when his dirty, impudent little face could see over it, he shouted out, — 'Hello!

Who are you?' ' Dan Martin,' shouted back the other. ' Are you the ne\v people next door ? ' Dan nodded vehemently, as much as to say there was no doubt about that. ' I say, climb over and play with us.' Dan shook his head again, but less vehe mently. 'Why not?' ' Because I don't think my mother Avould like me to. She said I was not to talk to the children next door.' 'That's us, you mean.' ' I am afraid she did mean you, because they have not got any children the other side.' ' Oh, bother ! She can't mean us. Why ever should she mind your talking to us ? ' Dan got up from his seat, looked embar rassed, put his finger in his mouth, and then came up close to the wall, and explained, in a low voice, — ' She said you are noisy and rude, and she does not wish me to play with you. But I like the little girl — where is she ? ' ' Polly ?

She's here, close by, listening. Can't you see her ? ' Whereupon Dan stood on tiptoe, and I could just see two large, round, wondering brown eyes fixed on me above the wall, and the quiet voice asked, — ' What's thy real name ? ' ' Her name is Marie — that's her real name, but we always call her Polly.' ' How do thee do, Polly ? ' asked the voice again. 'Oh, I'm all right! Stop a minute. I'll go and fetch a box, so we can talk more comfortably.' Whilst I was gone, Charley clambered up on to the wall, and ran to and fro, and switched us both with a willow wand he held in his hand. I, busy talking to Dan, did not notice what he was about, till I suddenly observed that he had climbed up and Avas poking his stick into the Martins' cistern. Frightened lest he should do some mischief to the ball tap, or have a fall, I shrilly remonstrated with him ; and the sound of my loud young voice speedily brought a grave face, sur rounded by a neat Avhite frill, to the back Avindow of Number 2, and a very surprised voice asked, — ' Little boy, what art thou doing on my Avail?' Rude little Charley simply answered her by putting his finger to his nose. ' What art thou thinking of. meddling Avith our cistern ? ' ' Fishing for red herrings in your Avater butt,' shouted Charley, while he repeated his impudent gesture. ' Get doAvn directly !

Thou art a very rude little boy. I wonder thy mother does not teach thee better manners. Daniel, come in at once. I told thee not to talk to the neighbours' children.' Daniel obeyed directly, and lest me much humiliated by this interview. I vainly tried to get my ill-behaved brother from the wall, but at last had to call Aunt Fanny to my assistance, who simply seized him by the legs, and brought him doAvn, kicking and roaring, by main force. The next day, before breakfast, when I was shaking the mats on the top of the back flight of steps leading into the garden, I saw Daniel come out again with his book, and felt I must apologise to him for Charley's rudeness. So I left my rugs to take care of them selves, and ran down the steps, and climbed upon the box, and loudly hemmed to attract his attention, but he would not look up. ' Daniel ! ' I cried at last in a loud whisper. ' Dan, come here ! ' ' I mustn't,' he replied. ' Go away, little girl.

I am sorry, but I must not speak to thee.' ' Oh, do come ! Just for once ! ' I begged again. After examining the windows of his own house, and even looking up and down all the row to make sure he was not ob served, the little man slowly and unwillingly approached me, and our eyes met just over the top of the Avail. We could not see one another's mouths even. ' What do thee want to say ? Thee must be quick. I did not think you Avould be up so early in your house, or I should not have come out, for my mother has positively for bidden me to talk to you over the Avail, and thee should not try to make me break my promise.' ' Oh, promises are made of pie-crust ! ' I cried irreverently. ' But, Dan, I am very sorry Charley was so rude yesterday. He is a rude boy. I do wish he Avas sent to school.' ' Doesn't he go to school ? ' ' No, we don't, any of us — and I should so like to learn to read story books like you.' ' I don't read story books — these are my lessons I am learning.

Can't thee really read at all ? ' ' No, not well enough to understand books.' ' A great girl like thee ! ' ' I know. Isn't it horrid ? ' ' How old are thee ? ' ' Nearly eight.' ' Nearly eight years old, and can't read ! Why, I could when I was six.' ' I daresay. Do you go to school ? I can't go. Ma wants me to help her.' ' I don't go to school yet — my mother teaches me, but I shall go to York when I am older.' ' York ! What is that ? ' ' York is a very great big Friends' School up in the North of England. Have thee never heard of it ? ' ' No, never. What is a Friends' School ?' ' Why, a school for the children of the Society of Friends.' ' The Society of what ? ' ' Have thee never heard of Friends — Quakers ? ' ' Oh, yes ! I have heard of Quakers ! the ladies wear pokey lavender bonnets, and the boys call " Quack !

Quack ! " after them in the streets. Are you a Quaker ? And is that Avhy you talk so funny ? ' ' I use the plain language, if that is what thee mean,' replied the little man solemnly. ' I don't know Avhat you mean. But you are a funny boy, and you talk funny too. You say " thee " and " thou," and First Day instead of Sunday, and I can't think why.' ' My mother says the days of the week are named after heathen gods, and Chris tians should not use them.' ' Oh ! And is you a heathen god too ? ' ' No ; it is not good grammar to say you. You is plural, and you shouldn't say it to one person.' ' / can't understand Avhat you mean one bit Avith your heathen gods and your plurals. It may be very clever, but I call it stupidness not to call things by their proper names.' Dan coloured, and looked offended. ' I think thee are a very strange little girl,' he said, and prepared to retire, but I stopped him by calling out, — ' You are a queer boy ; but I like you all the same.

I should think you were never naughty like us.' ' My father and mother take great pains with me, and I try to be good, but I don't always succeed.' ' Do you ? I am afraid I don't try, even. I do get so savage with the young ones, and Ma is so aggravating sometimes.' ' Which is thy mother — the one with the yellow hair ? ' ' Yes.' ' My mother thought she was the cook, but I said she was thy mother. Why is she so untidy ?' It was my turn to be offended now. I coloured violently, but could find no answer. ' Is she a lady ? ' asked Dan doubtfully. ' 1 don't know — but my papa is a gentleman.' ' Where is thy papa ? ' ' I don't know — he does not come often.' ' How very strange. My papa lives with us always.' ' Does he ? Ours doesn't. I think he goes away journeys.' B ' Perhaps he is a sailor,' suggested practical Dan. ' No, I don't think so.

He is a gentleman, and a very rich man, I know, because I heard Aunt Fanny say he owned a great many houses about here.' 'Oh! my father is not rich. He has to Avork for his living, and my mamma says Ave must be very careful of the money, for he works very hard to earn it for us, and we have a money-box to put our savings in ; have thee ? ' ' No. There is a missionary-box some where about, but there's nothing much in it. We often rattle it to see. Ma says it's all nonsense, and charity begins at home ; but Aunt Fanny says Ave ought to do what we can for the poor heathen.' 'Who is Aunt Fanny — the girl Avho sleeps on the first-floor back, with smooth, yellow hair ? ' ' Yes, that's Aunt Fanny. She's a dressmaker, and she lives with us.' ' Is she nicer than thy mother ? ' ' Oh ! Ma's nice enough when she is not cross, and does not bang us about.' Dan s Mother. 19 ' Does she whip thee ? ' in a tone of great horror. ' Rather ! when I am not quick enough over my work.

But she is kind sometimes, and takes me to the theatre, and then I love her.' ' Takes thee to the theatre ! But don't thee know theatres are very wicked places.' ' No ; I am sure they're not ! Why, there's music and dancing and angels there — a pantomime is like heaven, I tell you ! ' Dan shook his head ; he could not believe that. ' My mother says good people never go to the theatre, or balls or parties.' ' There, I know, she is quite mistaken, for real clergymen go to the theatre, and balls too.' ' But my mother does not approve of clergymen, or any hireling ministry.' ' Oh, dear, I don't understand,' I cried, with a sigh. ' What a very odd woman she must be if she does not approve of parsons.' ' I think I had better go in now, for they will be getting up. Farewell, little girl, I shall ask my mother to let me talk to thee sometimes, and I will ask her, too, to beg thy mother to let thee go to school and learn to read, and then I will lend thee books — that is, if my papa and mamma will let me,' added this very conscientious little boy, as he put out his hand and said ' Farewell.' ' Farewell ! what does that mean ? ' Dan looked bewildered at my ignorance, and retreated as I mockingly called after him, — ' Fare-ill, fare-ill, little boy ! '

Chapter II

A few days after this, Dan called to me one afternoon when I was minding my little sister in the garden, and asked me if I could come to speak to his mother, who would like to see me ; if I would come round to the front door, he would let me in. ' Wait a minute,' I cried, ' till I have taken little Vi to Aunt Fanny. And I must tidy my hair and wash my hands before I can go to see your mother. Ma's asleep, so I sha'n't tell her, or she might not let me go.' ' Thee had better ask leave.' ' Oh, no, I sha'n't ! I never do.' ' Make haste. I will watch for thee at the front parlour window.' Off I ran to tidy myself, half-pleased, half awed at being summoned to an interview with the solemn Mrs Martin. A few minutes after, Dan letjme into such Dan s Mother. 22 a tidy passage, so different from ours ; a new mat set quite straight on a spick and span new oak-coloured oilcloth and a weather-glass and umbrella-stand in the hall.

I wanted to look at the weather-glass, and shake it to see the hands move, but Dan took me by the hand, and pulled me into the long room, at the back part of which Mrs Martin was sitting by a bright polished round mahogany table, Avith out a cloth, hemming strips of very fine white muslin. She shook hands with me, and asked me how I was, kindly, but did not invite me to sit down, so Dan and I stood side by side in front of her, answering her numerous questions. Was it really true, as Dan had told her, that I did not go to school, and did not know how to read ? I replied that I could only spell out a few words, and had never had any regular teaching. Mrs Martin was quite silent for a few minutes, then said gravely, — ' I cannot tell what thy mother can be think ing of not to send her children to school.' ' She says she has not time to see about it, and she can't spare me.

I have to mind the little ones.' ' But she must surely know that it is posi tively wrong not to give her children a proper education. Do thee think, now, it would do any good if I were to speak to her about it ?' ' I don't know. Aunt Fanny does tell her so sometimes, but she only gets savage. You see, I must mind the little ones.' ' It is strange. Don't you keep any servants ? ' ' No. Ma says servants are only plagues. She would sooner do all the Avork herself.' ' She must be a very active woman if she can do all the Avork of such a house as this.' ' It is not kept like yours,' I replied, looking round on the spotless walls and fresh green carpet ; everything was so very neat, though, perhaps, a little bare in appearance. ' Can she cook also ? ' ' Oh, yes. When she chooses, she is a first-rate cook — but sometimes she's tired, and then I have to fetch some boiled beef from the cook-shop, or else we have eggs.

She's very tired to-day — she Avent to the theatre last night — so I am going to boil some eggs, and cook the potatoes for dinner. She's asleep now, or I could not have come.' ' Would she not like thee to come here ? ' ' I don't think so. As you won't let your children play with us, she says two can play at that game, and hers sha'n't associate with yours. Mad she was, when she heard your little boy say he might not talk to us over the wall. She called him a little prig, and said you were a stuck-up, sanctimonious — ' ' Hush ! thee should not repeat such things. They were not intended for me to hear, I am sure. I think thee should have asked leave before coming, and I am sorry now I gave Daniel leave to ask thee to do so.' ' Oh, it don't matter. She's fast asleep — she won't know ! ' ' But are you not taught it is wrong to dis obey your parents ? ' I hung my head, not knowing how to answer. ' Dear me ! how sad to think of children being brought up so,' and Mrs Martin shook her head and looked, I thought, as though she wanted to blame Ma, but thought she ought not to do so before me.

At last she asked, — ' What is thy name ? ' ' Marie.' ' That is a French name.' ' Is it ? I was called after Marie Wilton, of the Prince of Wales.' ' Prince of Wales! Do thee mean a public house ? ' ' No ; the theatre — don't you knoAv, in Tottenham Court Road. Ma's very fond of Marie Wilton, and so she named me after her ; and Charley's named after Charles Mathews ; and Vi, is Violet — that was Ma's theatre name, — and Harry, after Henry Irving.' ' Was thy mother ever an actress herself ? ' Yes ; I've heard her say she was very good at a break-down in a burlesque. But she was obliged to leave off, because she got so fat she couldn't wear tights.' ' That will do,' interrupted Mrs Martin hastily, putting up her hands with a gesture of horror, as though she could stand no more such details. ' I am sorry for thee, little Marie.

Thee have a nice face, and Dan likes thee, but I really cannot have my children associate with thee. It is quite impossible ! ' ' Why ? ' I asked desperately. ' I don't use bad words, and I am not rough like Charley. You might let me come here sometimes.' My grieved and sad face seemed to touch her a little bit, for she kissed me kindly, and gave me a large piece of seedcake, adding, — 'No, I could not permit that ; it would lead to more. I am afraid I cannot explain to thee now, how differently my dear children have been brought up ; but Avhen thou growest up thou wilt see I was right to keep you apart. Do thee ever go to a place of worship ? ' ' Sometimes Aunt Fanny takes us to church Avhen she has time.' ' I wonder what thee hear there ? ' ' Oh, I hear lovely singing, and I like the chaunted prayers, too.' ' Te-te-te !

" exclaimed Mrs Martin. ' I have never been to church, but, I fear, that is what most people go to hear.' This astonished me still more, for such a very good person as Mrs Martin to say she had never been to church. I really could not understand anything about the Society of Friends, their views, or their mode of worship, but naturally thought that going to church comprised the whole sum total of religious observance. I suppose that Mrs Martin did not feel, on reflection, that she could, consistently Avith her duty to herself, enter our doors, for she certainly did not call on my mother, but wrote her a letter instead, on the subject of our neglected education, which Ma called very impertinent and interfering ; and Avhich caused endless discussions betAveen her and Aunt Fanny, who entirely agreed with Mrs Martin, and declared she was heartily glad Liz should hear what someone else thought about her shocking neglect of her children's education.